Chapter Seventeen #2
I peer in and move it to the right location and then step aside for her. She leans in. “Oh—wow. One’s blue.”
“And the other is gold,” I say. “Together they balance.” I could keep going. I could tell her about optical doubles or gravitational pairs, how sometimes they only look close from our angle, but I don’t. She’s smart; she’ll hear the rest.
She looks up at me, the sky reflected in her eyes. “When did you get into this?”
“After my hip surgery when I thought my career was over. My dad bought me the telescope. He wanted me to remember that we’re all just a spackle of dust on a watery planet.
That if we don’t take the shot, the universe doesn’t care one way or the other, so do it anyway,” I say, surprised by how easily the word comes now.
“During those nights of rehab when I thought my career in Hockey was over, the nights were the worst. I’d go up to the roof of my building and realize the same stars were over Helsinki as everywhere else.
That I hadn’t disappeared just because no one can see me playing on a team.
No one sees the planets day to day… but they’re still there. ”
Her face changes—softens, yes, but with a weight that says she understands exactly how that kind of loneliness feels.
“Maybe it doesn’t make sense to a lot of people but it helped put everything into perspective for me. Whether I ever played again or not, it wasn’t earth shattering. It took the pressure off.”
“I think that’s beautiful. And I think your father was a very smart man.”
“He was. I hope I’m half the father he was.”
Her hand reaches out, resting against my heart. “I know you will be.”
She shifts, one palm sliding instinctively to her belly again.
She’s done it six times tonight, like a metronome only I can hear.
I want to ask if he’s moving yet, if he kicks when she lies down, whether she’s thought about names, whether she’ll let me paint tiny galaxies on his nursery ceiling.
I want to ask if I can be there for everything and still be the quiet she needs.
Instead I lower the telescope and sit beside her on the blanket. The city’s a hush below us; the sky is pretending to be kind.
“I need to say something,” I begin, and the way her shoulders go tight says she thinks it’s something dangerous.
“I hate the noise. The rumors. The way people talk about you like you’re a headline.
I want to—” I stop, flex my hands once against my knees, dial back the part of me that would walk out onto a press scrum and swallow all their microphones whole.
“But I know what we agreed, and I am okay with being quiet if that’s what keeps you steady.
I’m—” I search for the word that doesn’t scare her. “I’m here. However you need me to be.”
She stares at my mouth like the words might rearrange themselves if she watches long enough. Then she nods once, like something inside her gives. “Thank you.”
The wind lifts. The fairy lights sway with it. I want to tuck her under my arm and build a wall around us out of blankets.
“Do you want dessert?” I ask, because I’m a genius at changing the subject when I’m about to say something true.
“What kind?”
I lift the little bakery box with a flourish. “Cardamom buns. Contraband levels of butter.”
Her eyes actually light. “Okay, I officially forgive you for the pizza incident."
We tear them in half and hand each other the bigger halves. Sugar dusts her lip; she swipes it away with her tongue and my brain goes static for three full seconds. All I can think about is kissing her, but that’s nothing new. All I ever think about is kissing her.
She leans back against the cushion behind her, a hand curved over the side of her belly. I lay back next to her and without thinking, I let my hand rest near her on the blanket, palm up, an offer I won’t push.
She looks at my hand. Then at my face. Then down again. Then she reaches for it and places my palm against her stomach. “He liked the buns too,” she says, and then I feel it.
A kick, a push… something that tells me he’s here with us too.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. It feels like someone put a small new sun in my chest and told it to warm the parts that went cold in the desert.
We sit like that, staring at her perfect belly, my hand spayed out of most of it to make sure I don’t miss anything if he changes position.
Another small hello. “Show-off already.”
“Wonder where he gets that,” she says, voice fond.
I can’t help it. I lean forward and press my lips to the place my hand just was. Not a kiss full of heat—just a pressed vow, a quiet greeting to two heartbeats at once. When I look up, her eyes are wet.
“Hey,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” she whispers back.
This time, her eyes don’t leave mine. And then I take a chance, because I have to when she looks at me like that. I lean down slowly, giving her every chance to stop me—but she doesn’t. Her breath catches, lashes flutter, and then her hands find the back of my neck.
The kiss starts tentative, testing, then deepens with a hunger neither of us bothers to disguise.
She tastes like cinnamon and Seattle in September.
The world shrinks to the sound of our breathing, the slip of her fingers in my hair, the quiet sigh that leaves her when I shift closer.
Her knees part, and I move between them, bracing my palms against the blanket so I don’t crush her belly—just close enough for her to feel the weight of me, the slow press of need that matches the thud of my pulse.
She lets out a small sound of agreement, as if to say this is what she needed too, and it undoes me.
My hand skims up her side, catching on her sweater dress, the curve of her hip beneath soft fabric. It’s not about taking; it’s about remembering that beneath all the conflict keeping us apart, there’s still something unbreakable between us.
Then the wind decides to ruin it.
A sudden gust sweeps through the balcony, rattling the telescope and knocking over the empty glasses with a crash. We break apart, breathing hard, both startled into laughter.
“Guess the universe has opinions,” she says, cheeks flushed.
“Jealous universe,” I say, still catching my breath. I stand and then help her up next, righting the telescope and checking the lens. “I should get all of this stuff inside before it breaks.”
“Here, let me help you,” she says, quickly kneeling to grab the picnic items off the blanket. “Save the buns at all costs,” she teases, reaching for the cardamom bun box first to tuck it back into the basket.
“God forbid the buns fly away.”
“It would be an utter tragedy.”
She keeps helping me pack, but I can see her belly is making it harder.
“Kendall, let me do that. Just relax. I’ll have everything packed up, and we can head downstairs.”
“It’s okay, I can help.”
Soon we’re packed up and heading back down to my apartment.
I open the door for her and let her in first. We drop everything on the kitchen counters, and then there’s a short pause between us–like the tension from that kiss is still pulling at both of us.
There’s something about having her in my apartment. A feeling deep down that’s begging me not to let her leave. To say something that will convince her to stay. This place finally feels like home but only because she’s standing in it.
I take a few steps closer, her eyes locking on mine. I brush a few strands that fell out of her bun away from her face. “Will you stay tonight? I’m not ready to let you go just yet.”
The truth is, I’m never ready to let her go. I wish I never had to again.
I see her glance instantly at the open door to my bedroom, her mind already jumping a few steps ahead. That’s how Kendall is—a planner through and through—and she already knows what staying the night could mean.
“You want me to stay over?”
“I just want to keep you to myself… just for a little longer. What we do or don’t do is up to you. But if not, I’ll take you home.”
“I drove…” she says, though I can see she’s still debating whether she wants to stay.
“I’ll still take you. We can get your car to you tomorrow.”
“I want to stay,” she says finally, stepping closer until we’re toe-to-toe. She licks her lips, and now I know we’re on the same page about how this night ends.
“Say that again,” I ask, bending closer. I need to hear it—her choice. Maybe it’s just for tonight, but I still need to hear it.
Her hand slides up my chest, her fingertips burning into me like a brand. Like I’m all hers—and I am.
“I want to stay… with you.”
That’s all I need. My arm catches her around the waist, pulling her against me, her baby bump padded between us. My lips crash down on hers, and she raises her chin to meet me, her mouth needing mine as much as I need hers.
I reach my hands around the back of her thighs and lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist as I carry her toward the bedroom.
I carry her through the doorway, her thighs tight around my waist, her mouth never leaving mine. The bedroom is dark, I never bothered to turn on the lights. I only planned for dinner and the stars, of course... I hoped for more.
Moonlight slants through the window, painting everything silver-blue.
I set her down on the edge of the bed, gentle, one hand cupping the back of her head so she doesn't jar. She's breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and wanting. Her hands find my chest, fingers splaying wide like she's trying to memorize the architecture of my ribs.
I reach for the hem of her sweater dress, pausing to meet her eyes.
She nods, lifts her arms, and I pull it over her head in one smooth motion.
Underneath: a black bra, simple and devastating.
The swell of her belly, round and perfect.
I bend to press my lips there first—a kiss to the place our son is growing, safe and warm.
She makes a sound low in her throat, fingers threading into my hair.